


The Thumbed Page

by beautifullyheeled



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Potterlock, Ravenclaw Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-12 23:07:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1203910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifullyheeled/pseuds/beautifullyheeled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes home from Afghanistan and meets an eccentric bookshop proprietor. Can the two of them unravel John's past before it catches up to their future?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Thumbed Page

He had been missing the luxury of reading older books.

John hoped he might be able to find one or two at the bookstore he had been directed towards. He was told that they had a pretty eclectic assortment and was truly looking forward to testing that assessment. Soon he was there. The carved wooden sign over the door looked almost cheery despite itself.

_Secondhand Prose_

The window was stacked in an odd arrangement of book spines and what looked like parchment. Intrigued, John opened the door to this little shop that was literally floor to ceiling with shelves of books. He became lost in the rows. Breathed in deeply. Old paper and ink reviving memories of summer nights and his favorite hiding spot. Vanilla. Tannin. Bit of damp. Aged and well loved. The doctor realised just how much he had missed the smell. An aged tealish book, the gilding mostly worn with yellowing pages brought him back out of his thoughts. Gently browsing the pages he carelessly bumped into a fellow patron.

“Sorry bout that, mate.” John stated before going back to his book.

“Yes, well you should be,” the younger man rebuffed. “There are chairs for perusing.”

“Well, again, sorry.” John tried on a polite smile. “It’s just been ages since I’ve been surrounded like this.”

“You should come more often, then.”

John nodded his agreement,  and made a small sound in the affirmative as the stranger began to walk away. He  finally found a wonderfully natty burgundy highback in a nook towards the back of the shop. Happy with the diffused sunlight coming through the slit of semi-opaque window, he sat to browse through his selections. The old pages greeted him, wonderfully musty yet pristine, and were a welcome sight as he dove into the first book. John knew he must have lost track of time as the stranger he had bumped earlier came up to him offering tea and biscuits. He wondered now if the dark haired fellow was possibly the proprietor of the shop. John took a sip, and found that it was exactly as he liked it. Pleased John thanked the younger man before he went back to his perusal of the book currently in his lap.

“Afghanistan?” The smooth baritone registered library low, not in an unkind but more curious fashion. The fact that this fellow would want to know anything about someone so ordinary as him caused John to perk up even more.

“Yes,” John replied intrigued. “How did you-?”

“Tan, short military cut, I can barely see your identification disks outlined under your shirt.”

“Amazing!”

“Really?” Sherlock seemed to pause at the exclamation.

“Yes, quite!” John let his astonishment show happily on his face. “You seem surprised?”

“Not quite the reaction I normally receive,” The gentleman studied him before introducing himself. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“John Watson,” He supplied. “Pleased to meet you. So, is this your shop?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. I am it’s current curator. Quiet shop, volumes to absorb, light traffic.”

“Sounds perfect,” John returned. “Peaceful.”

“It can be. Sometimes too much so.”

John stilled listening to the quiet surrounding them. It was more silence then he had heard in years, not even a whisper other then their breathing. The air around him suddenly feeling too intimate. He fidgeted checking his watch, realised it was getting on in the evening and he should be getting on his way.

“Well, it’s half past six. I really should let you close up shop.”

“I closed over an hour ago.” Sherlock looked pensive. “You may borrow those if you like.  If you buy them, I cannot see how you would have a place to store them.”

Once again, the bookshop owner surprised him with his keen sense of observation. “Well, how will you afford supper if people do not pay?”

“I said you may borrow.” Sherlock now crooked a half smile, “As for my supper, would you be interested in a little Italian place?  I know one just around the way.”

John mulled the offer over. The man was most definitely interesting, and if John had to admit, devastatingly handsome. Good company, quite possibly a decent meal, and old books to read at his leisure? This was a win-win scenario if he ever heard of one. Putting the books in his canvas shoulder bag, he stood ready to depart.

“Alright, sounds lovely.”

John waited momentarily as Sherlock locked up the shop, then out into the night air the two went. As they walked the few minutes toward their dinner, the two men were amicable. John raptly listening to  almost his whole life was being laid before him,but the doctor  learned very little about the man beside him. Sherlock seemed to turn his questions into even more answers about John’s. It was a brilliant thing to see. It made him want to know about Sherlock. Why on earth did he run a little shop? Why wasn’t he in a think tank, or a physicist working to solve the puzzle of cold fusion? John was clever, he knew it, but was modest about it. Sherlock? He was an all consuming brilliance that scorched everything in his wake.

“Stunning!”

“Pardon?” Sherlock stopped at the edge of the curb, looking back at John.

“I’m sorry. It just really is brilliant how you can figure all this stuff out.”

“Not brilliance. No, it’s observation.” They continued, crossing the quiet section of road. “Most look but do not see. Doctors, like yourself, are trained to observe, but even then many of your profession never really pick up the trick.”

“I’m observant!” John replied.

“Says the man who had his entire attention taken by the old book in his hands.”

“Well, if it weren’t for that book I wouldn’t be here with you.” The boldness of the statement pinked John’s cheeks, but he stood by it. Sherlock dipped his head, trying to  hide his half-smile just as John caught it.

_'Merry chase indeed.''_ John thought to himself.

As they entered the restaurant, they were greeted by the owner Angelo. He sat them just close enough to the fireplace to be cozy, and away from most of the other people, leaving them with a bit more privacy then John expected. Sherlock seemed pleased with this. The two  had a lively discussion as to how they knew one another, which left John thoroughly amused.

“He’s really one of a kind, isn’t he?” John mused, “Seems to be really pleased you have someone with you tonight.”

“Oh, Angelo? Always the romantic,” Sherlock explained. “One reason for the restaurant, as a matter of fact.”

A few moments later, Angelo was back beside their table, bottle of wine uncorked and a candle for their table. They gave their order, and then sank back into their previous discussion. Angelo winked knowingly, then once again left them to their own devices while waiting for their meals.

“So, bring many dates here do you? A girl could be swept off her feet with that type of attention.”

“No, that’s not really my area.”

“Ah. A boyfriend then?”

“John...no I do not have a boyfriend. Too busy, too mundane.”

“Pity that. You look like you need someone to feed you up.”

“Is that what one does? Feeds you up?”

“Can be, I suppose.” John, feeling mischievous, decided to tease. “So, what is it exactly that you do when you are not minding the shop?”

“Research. You could come see, if you wish.”

John didn’t know exactly how to take the invitation.  He was pretty sure they had been having a good evening, but this didn’t quite seem an invitation for something more. However, as he was terribly curious John decided to accept it in a lighthearted fashion.

“Only if you have incredible tea to go with the Limoncello cakes we will be taking with us.”

“Oh, I believe I have.”

They went on on through the rest of their meal in close to the same manner; John asking, Sherlock redirecting. It was both fascinating and almost charming how little Sherlock wanted to talk of himself yet seemed curiously absorbed in John’s story. He had guessed most of it, the salient points, but wanted the rest fleshed out. Things like motivation, feelings, other outside parameters he could not have sounded out himself.

“So six months into your specialization, you transferred and received your orders?”

“Correct. It was hard at first mind you, but worth every moment. Now, over there, it’s a different type of life, but worth it. The risk.”

As they finished their meal - two bottles of wine gone - they were getting into deeper territory. Normally John would have headed off this line of discussion, but he felt at ease with Sherlock, which was very nice indeed as far as John was concerned. It seemed Sherlock was just a little on the fringe and enjoyed trying to stay one step ahead of their conversation and interaction.

The doctor really had the feeling Sherlock and he were actually becoming fast friends. It just might ease the boredom he was worried about occuring while he was home.

“Danger.” Sherlock supplied. “Ah, there’s the motivation. Adrenaline. Working swiftly to mend, then the next.”

“You really are something, you know that,” John shook his head in disbelief. “If it were anyone else saying that, I’d be pretty irritated.  Most people don’t understand it, accuse me of being careless. From you it seems more like a statement...” He searched to put the right words together. “Facts pulled from all of the minutiae.”

“Absolutely. What you do is important John, never doubt that.”

“Well thanks, I guess... Ready to head out? Still want to go back to yours?”

“I wouldn’t have invited you otherwise.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

After thanking Angelo again for the fine meal and take-away cake, they entered into the chilled evening.

The haze of the mild flurries had them tucking into their coats, John smiling at his fortune. He had hoped he might see some snow while home, and it looked as if this was a precursor to more on the horizon. John found himself hoping that Sherlock might have something more than tea if it continued to drop as the temperature was wont to do.

They walked amicably in silence, Sherlock just slightly closer to him than was necessary, but it did not bother John, not really.  It took him a minute to realize that Sherlock was trying to ever so subtly shield him from the cold, yet still stay within his peripheral vision.

“Amazing...”

“Yes, John? I’m sure you’ve seen sno-”

“Sherlock, I mean you.”

“Oh...?”

“I know what you are doing, thank you.”

“That’s what friends do, isn’t it? Protect each other?”

“Yes. Though I do believe I might be safe from these particularly vicious flakes- teeth are too small.”

“John, this is not an episode of Doctor Who.” Sherlock sounded grave, as he unlocked the door. “You’re not acclimated. When we get in, I want you to feel free to grab a shot of whiskey while I warm the place up, alright?”

“Ah, sure.”

Sherlock let them in, going immediately up the stairs ahead of John.

What he expected of the flat, John was not certain, but most assuredly not what was before him. It was like an extension of the store that Sherlock minded just next door. All a tidy jumble of books, glass curios full of odds and antiques, old Victorian fauna in specimen shadowboxes. All the walls had been blown out of the old place so that it was open plan for the most part. Spacious and very bohemian, if John had to place a style.

The place is very... well... _Sherlockian_ , he decides.

There was another flight of stairs against the wall that adjoined the flat to the bookstore. John assumed went to Sherlock’s private rooms. That was insignificant to John, as what had caught his eye was the large tapestry that took up most of the far wall looking like a large oak with banners .

John swore that, just for a second, he saw the banners move.  He moved to walk over to the large work of art, but Sherlock called him back. He was reminded of how chilled he was feeling as Sherlock scolded him for not getting the whiskey.

“Alright then, I’ll grab the whiskey. Which cabinet?”

“I believe the one by the sink, I could be wrong.”

“Move it that often do you?” John pushes the stained glass door to the side peering into the cabinet.  “Here are your glasses...and the whiskey...I think.”

Sherlock had lit the smaller fireplace that was closer to his kitchen and put the kettle on one of the trammel hooks. Coming to sit beside John in one of the overly stuffed large chairs, Sherlock smiled at him before leaning forward and snatching the bottle from John. He poured a good dollop for them both.

“Air do shlàinte!” John stated before quickly downing the amber liquid, feeling the warmth instantaneously. It was a very pleasant feeling, if a little surprising. He must have been slightly more inebriated from the wine then he previously thought.

“Slàinte agad-sa, Sohn.”  Sherlock replied, a slight glimmer to his eyes. “Feeling alright?”

“Oh God,” John groused as the room began to spin. “You’ve drugged me.”

“I’ve done no such thing!” Sherlock looked affronted. “I’ve given you a hearth and a good measure of Blishen’s to warm your bones.”

“Calm down, you git. Let’s get that cake set and tea to sober me a bit.”

“Rest here, I’ll get the setup from the kitchen.”

“Oh, so now you’re going to be a hospitable host?” John laughs from the very comfortable chair realising he is very well on his way to being drunk. “Oh, I need sobering...cake me, I need the sponge!”  

Sherlock leaves the room to a tittering John who decides to shift in the chair to watch Sherlock putter in the small kitchen. One thing he was thankful is that Sherlock was right about that damned whiskey. John would have to purchase a bottle before he left and throw it into storage somewhere reputable until his next leave. He’d never have anything warm him so quickly, it was brilliant.

“Sherlock, what do you do?” He asked, finally getting up the courage to admit he hadn’t a clue. “I still haven’t come any closer to figuring it out.”

“Really now?” Sherlock replied as he handed over the slice of cake and poured the tea for them both adding a splash of heavy cream to John’s and nothing to his own. “That is hard to believe.”

“Oi! I’m not near as observant as you’ve proven yourself to be...”

“Still, I have faith in you John...try.”

“You have a bookstore that is ages old, yes, and some of the books as well. Your flat seems largish, almost like it’s bigger than it can be. You have antiques, curiosities, mostly aged things or items that lend to that sort...um...but you have electricity and don’t seem to like to use it.”

Sherlock was gazing at John as a slow genuine smile crossed his face and held. John did not know the meaning, but he could not help but to return it. Taking a sip of his tea, John tried to cover the blush that was beginning to just heat his cheeks, his ears already flushed.

“Sherlock!” He finally exclaimed laughing. “Why are you... what are you doing? Trying to mesmerize me?”

“Possibly. Would that be so terrible?”

“Shut it, let’s eat our cake so I can maybe sober a bit before walking to my hotel.”

“Why on earth would you do that? It’s snowing!” Sherlock once again seemed flustered. “Stay tonight? I’ll stay down here with you?”

“I’ll not put you out of your bed!”

“Well then I’ll share it, if you are so concerned.” Sherlock then took a large bite of the cake shaking his head at the obvious preposterousness of John’s idea of going back to his hotel. “Eat the cake, John. And the chocolate! You’ll not aspirate in your sleep, I’ll see to it. Sober up remember?”

“Bloody hell! You need to come with a warning label Sherlock. Have it read ‘Puck incarnate’.”

“John. No.” Rolling his eyes now, Sherlock looked half-torn between slightly irate and mischievous, as if his face could not decipher which way to go. “To sleep. I’m not going to drag a man who can’t handle his whiskey to my bed for a snog, shag, or whatever you may be thinking.”

“Well then, I see how it is.” John acted purposefully affected, put on false airs before devolving into giggles once again.

“Oh, now ‘proper John’ is it?” Sherlock teased back, “Fine. Eat, then I’ll grab quilts. Downstairs it is!”

“No, this is ‘barely-measurable-irritated-John’, you know him, the guy who went with you to dinner, that you now think can’t handle his liquor. Oh, no, not happening. One of these nights I’ll drink you under you skinny git, just you watch!”

“I’m sure you’ll try.”

“Watcher, I will!” John could feel the fuzziness, so he ate the luscious cake and drank the tea proffered to him, made perfectly just as before. “So a sleep-over it is then! Lie-in here I come!”

“You are the absolute height of non-sobriety.  I’ll have to get you Glenfiddich next time.”

“No, Sherlock.” John looked somewhat seriously into his friends eyes, trying to plead. “Bed, please? If it’s squishy like this, but flat...I’ll be good. No aspirating.”

“You’ll be so angry with yourself in the morning with no spare togs.” Sherlock thought for a moment, “Stay right here, I’ll be right back. I think I might have a solution to you sleeping in just your pants.”

Going back into the kitchen, Sherlock reached into a closet and began rummaging.  A few minutes passed before he made a very pleased sound and brought out some clothing, handingit to John by way of dropping it into his lap before heading towards the fireplace.

“Well, dear sir, let me tamp down the fire, then shall we adjourn?”

“Sherlock?” John knew he really would hate himself if in the morning if he wasn’t at least rinsed down. Bad enough he’d not even a toothbrush. “Would you mind if I showered?”

“If you wish. Head upstairs, I’ll be right behind.”

John slowly tottered his way up the stairs, so slowly in fact that Sherlock was there in an instant, supporting him and helping John up the last few stairs, crowding a bit into the personal space. It was open, other than the ensuite, which had the same stained glass motif embedded into a large old heavy door that seemed to track to also act as the room’s door. Sort of ingenious, like Sherlock. He showed John into the room, started the shower, then closed the large door most of the way to where the downstairs would have to be closed off. Only a sliver of gap remained so his host could hear John if he needed assistance.

“Thank you.” John called quickly before stripping, throwing his clothes toward the door and getting directly into the luxurious, heavy thrum of the water. “This is heaven!”

And it was. John closed his eyes for a moment before grabbing the flannel Sherlock had left for him. He washed as quickly as possible, then rinsing out the flannel scrubbed his teeth and mouth, before rinsing it out once again and turning the taps off. He shimmied his body to remove most of the water, toweled the rest of the way off, and tried on the pyjamas Sherlock had been able to find. They fit decently; enough he wasn’t worried about them falling off, as they had a drawstring.

He’d have to make breakfast in the morning to thank Sherlock for everything.

Pushing against the door, he left the humid room behind him to see Sherlock already in his bed. It was a massive four poster gaudy thing with iron rods and curtains tied back. It looked as if it had been hijacked from some very old posh manor from a century ago.

“Come to bed then?” Sherlock patted what was to be John’s side. “I won’t bite. Sleep remember?”

“Hm,” John made a noncommittal noise, and pulling the covers back, flopped into bed.

“Better than the chair downstairs then?”

“Miles.”

“Good.” Sherlock turned towards him, and closed his eyes. “Oidhche mhath, Sohn.”

“Night, Sherlock.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

In the morning, John awoke slowly with a slight ache in his head, but nothing more.

He took a deep breath in, and snuggled himself back into the bedding before realizing there was another person in bed with him.  John’s mind raced through the previous day on fast forward, then relaxed in a few seconds when he remembered last night. Opening his eyes, he turned his head and found Sherlock sleepily gazing back at him. John could tell the man beside him was a slow riser.

“I’ll make breakfast?” John asked cheekily. “Least I can do for commandeering half of your bed.”

“Mghm.” Sherlock made a noise of what John thought had to be an affirmative before closing his eyes once again.

“Alright. I’ll get the repayment going then,” John smiled. “You won’t want to miss this.”

A slim long-fingered hand caught his wrist as he was almost up, causing John to pause.

“Don’t mind the containers. Use only what you recognise...wouldn’t want you turned into a bat or something without warning would we?”

John laughed loudly as he patted Sherlock’s hand in a tutting fashion. His new friend was most assuredly in good form this morning to be joking with John while half-asleep.

“Will do. Now, have a lie-in while your guest handles the morning meal.”

John moved out of the soft cocoon of covers. He dealt with his morning routine in a simplistic fashion, then moved the large door finally settling on covering the balcony opening. It should help muffle some of the noise from the kitchen at least. As John brushed past the tapestry, once again he had the odd notion that the banners were somehow undulating. He chalked it up to masterful craftsmanship and headed into the kitchen, this time for sustenance instead of fortification. Looking at the place in the diffused light coming through the haphazardly half-open thin curtaining, John felt as if were almost transported to a different place. Ethereal came to mind. Interesting how his inner-monologue had gone waxing ever since his feet crossed the threshold. It was nice to know he hadn’t entirely lost it over in the sands, even though it was brutally gorgeous over there, no matter how deadly. Maybe he’d start journaling again when he went back...but that was weeks away.

Today he had breakfast to scramble up for a new friend.

John started to go through a mental list of what he was hoping Sherlock had in his refrigerator when he heard movement in one of the soft chairs behind him.

“I thought you were going to have a lie-in Sherlock?” He asked while peeking through the contents, beginning to pull out the items he’d need to make a decent breakfast. If there was one thing that was true, it was that Sherlock could use a little feeding-up. Maybe John could encourage it, even if only a small amount.

There had been no answer, but John could still feel that he was not alone.

“I hope you like scrambles and toast, because that is what I’m serving this morning.” Finally having placed what he needed on the counter beside himself, John closed the refrigerator door and turned around to find a man seated in the chair that had held Sherlock the night before. John pulled the cast iron pan off the stove as he placed the eggs on the table, spinning it by it’s handle to test it’s weight. “Good morning then, was Sherlock expecting you?”

“Not so much, are you some stray my brother picked up last night?” The older man asked. As John studied him silently, refusing to give an answer, he decided he could see the resemblance. The longer the silence stretched between them as John prepared the eggs, the man seemed to become more curious. “Enough for all of us then?”

“Should be. So you’re the older brother I take it? Put the kettle to heat would you?” John huffed a bit and pulled himself militarily straight, adding the cheese he had found for added protein. It wouldn’t hurt Sherlock that was for sure, his medical minded side whispered internally. “You’re getting it how I make it. I’m not a special-order type. You have allergies? Don’t eat.”

“Yes, Mycroft Holmes.” He answered, curiosity hinted in his voice. “And you stayed the night with my brother.”

“John, my name is John.”

“Very well, John. I just don’t want you to get into something you can’t get out of.” Mycroft sighed. “My brother, he’s very uncaring of others at times.”

“Didn’t seem that way last night,” John stated bluntly. Let the brother extrapolate what he would out of that statement. “As a matter of fact, he seemed downright protective. I was frigid just from walking two blocks and he stayed close to try to keep me warm. On top of that he forced chocolate and some type of damned potent whiskey my way to warm me back up. And then insisted I stay so I would not go back out in the cold.”

With that he plated up the quick scramble, and for good measure, grabbed a knife and efficiently added some slices of tomato on the side.  Throwing four pieces of bread into the large toaster he had just plugged in, he rummaged once again in the refrigerator for butter and jam. Finding both, he considered himself lucky.

“Did he really?” Mycroft asked blandly, as he had no interest in the actual answer. “And he gave you sweets? Interesting.”

“Not really. We also had cake and tea before turning in. Now if you'll excuse me, we will be right back down.” Table prepared, John left the kitchen without another glance toward the brother and headed straight up the stairs to wake Sherlock.

John walked softly but with a purpose across the floor, he reached over and lightly jostled Sherlock’s sleeping form.

“Sherlock, we - well you - have a visitor,” he softly shook Sherlock again before speaking. “Sherlock, your brother is downstairs and breakfast will get cold soon. It’s plated. Please come down.”

“Mycroft is here?” Came the disgruntled response as Sherlock rose from the covers wrapping himself in the sheet, carelessly dropping the rest of the bedclothes haphazardly to the floor. Starting first at John’s feet, Sherlock moved his gaze slowly up John’s body as if giving him a once over for harm. Satisfied Sherlock half-smiled wickedly. “Well, lets go raise havoc, shall we?”

“After you, beanpole.” John jibed, “I would hate to trip on your burial shroud, so I’ll give you a good head start down those stairs...”

“Childish, John.”

“Kettle calling pot black, Sherlock.”

With that they made their way to the table joining Mycroft who had set-up the tea in their absence.

“I’ll play mother.” Mycroft supplied as he moved effortlessly between each teacup with the tea strainer, adding heavy cream to John’s, sugar to Sherlock’s and finally both to his own cup.

“The story of our life.” Sherlock added as an aside to John.

“Gentlemen. Really now.” Mycroft pulled a good dollop of apple butter onto his bread plate. “We are civilised adults. So, Sherlock, care to explain?”

“Explain what? This is John, you’ve met. Nothing further to discuss. End of.”

“Interesting...very good by the way, thank you John.”

“You’re welcome.” John was befuddled by the interaction between the two brothers. “So care to tell me what’s going on, either of you. Obviously I have been left out of something...”

“Nothing of consequence, John, I assure you. Isn’t that correct Sherlock?”

“ _Absolument_...”

“Oh, French now.” John felt like he was twigging onto something, but almost out of reach. “Two languages in twenty-four hours. Impressive.”

“Really?” Mycroft looked directly at his brother while questioning John. “Which other has he shown proficiency?”

“Doesn’t matter.” John proffered back to Mycroft. “ Just interesting is all.”

“Alright! Could I finish the meal you laid before me before it becomes frigid?”  Sherlock sounded honestly put out. “This is quite lovely of you to have done. Let’s not waste it on idle chatter please. Quite the squawking you two hens are doing. Maybe I should put you both out in the roost?”

John took a moment to absorb the caustic statement. He had never met anyone quite like Sherlock, and now, his brother, whom it seemed tried to at the very least to be a decent older sibling. Much as Harry used to before moving back to Glasgow with her fiance’ Clara. He looked back at the two brothers before a roll of laughter left him due to the dumbfounded looks mirrored on the brother’s faces.

“Cor blimey! Sherlock.” John said as he tried to settle himself, “Our friendship will never be boring will it?”

“No?” Sherlock answered quizzically.

“Well, this has been illuminating gentlemen, but some of us have a country to help run.” With that Mycroft stood, extending his arm to procure his umbrella from the kitchen doorway before leaning on it. “John, do be safe. My brother, well he can be...himself. Good day, Sherlock. John.”

With that Mycroft, took his leave, silently closing the main door on his way out.

“Wow.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock supplied.

John fiddled with his fork, finally spearing some eggs. They were going cold, but he knew after drinking the night previous this breakfast is what they both needed.  Sherlock seemed content with the triangle of toast dangling from his mouth as he diverted his attention to part of the paper Mycroft had brought it.

“So what is your day like, I assume you have to go open the shop soon?”

“Not today, no. I’m in for the day. I’ll reopen it in two days.” Sherlock looked at John almost expectantly. John hadn’t wanted to be a burden this morning, after all he wound up flopping-over the night because of his sobriety. Yet Sherlock seemed to enjoy John’s company as much as John had been enjoying his.

This was proven to him in Sherlock’s next query.

“Would you care to stay here? I’m sure Mycroft can have your things sent over.”

“How on earth would he do that?”

“Mycroft is, quite possibly, one of the most powerful men you will ever meet.” Sherlock smiled, a tinge of bitterness in it. “For right now, he is not an issue.”

“Then what is?”

“Finishing breakfast.”

They had spent the rest of breakfast discussing what John would like to do while home, Sherlock’s love of the bee’s he husbanded in Sussex, how John had wound up at the bookstore the afternoon before. It was fascinating how Sherlock just sort-of slotted nicely into a space that John hadn’t even known he had.  They moved topics fairly easy amongst bites of toast and eggs, sips of tea. The washing up was done efficiently between them, well Sherlock piled the dishes and went back to his tea while John washed up, but that was alright by him. After John was finished, Sherlock stated that he was going back for a lie-in then suggested that John should too as he still looked bleary. John decided to do just that as it was only half eight and it wasn’t as if he had anything pressing on. As Sherlock headed up the stairs, he paused and looked at John as he settled on the sofa with the throw blanket, a confused look crossed his face.

“John?” Sherlock questioned, “What are you doing?”

“Getting comfortable?” John smirked, he had thought it obvious what his intentions were.

“Yes, I see that.” Sherlock now sounded frustrated, definite confusion crossed his face. “Why aren't you coming upstairs? Was the bed not comfortable enough?”

“It was.” The realization dawned on John, he began to worry. “Sherlock, is this alright?”

“If it weren’t do you think you would be here?”

“Well no, I suppose not.”

Sherlock gave John a smirk and headed up the stairs. The next thing John saw were pillows and a few heavy blankets thrown over the half-wall from Sherlock’s room before the man himself bounded back down the stairs with his eyes alight. Going over to his provisions, Sherlock gathered everything improvising a sled out of two of the abused covers.

“Sherlock what are _you_ doing?” John asked truly curious.

“Isn’t it obvious John?” Sherlock responded mischievously. “Since you are staying on the sofa, that leaves with with only the non-lie-in furniture. Obvious solution, create one.”

“Create one? Are you five?”

“You know five is not my chronological age, John.” Sherlock gave him a sharp look. “Nor, my psychological one, this just makes the most sense.”

“No, you’re just a bit precocious is all.”

“That I will agree with, now, are you going to help, or sit there and read while I do all the work?”

“Oh, I don’t know...I’m your guest yet I’ve already made breakfast, entertained your brother, did the wash-up, and made tea. I think that’s enough for one day, don’t you?”

“Pity, I was hoping to coerce you to read-aloud seeing as you are firmly ensconced with no signs of moving to my aide.”

“Fine, alright Sherlock.” John felt indulgent. “Where shall I read from?”

“Hmm...The Warlock’s Hairy Heart please.”

“That’s not one I’ve heard of before,” John felt the wear on the leather binding inspecting the book he had picked up from the floor beside him. “This book is ages old isn’t it?”

“Well that copy has been in the family for six generations now I believe.”

“Six?” John tried to fathom the information. “Really? This book?”

“Well old books are the best, closest to the source of the tale.”

“Alright then...”

As John began to read the tale aloud, he realised that this was a very grim sort of thing. He could not fathom why it would be in a children’s book, but then half-remembered the tales his gran used to spin about pixies and ghosts, and decided he couldn’t any worse then those. It was a supremely sad tale that left him bruised inside aching for the loss of both the maiden and the warlock alike.

“So he locked his heart away to not be susceptible to love, beauty, joy? Aren’t those the most wonderful things about life?” John was curious as to why someone would ever write something so upsetting. “Who would do such a thing?”

“There are many who have a ‘hairy heart’ John, even if your sense of reality does not allow you to observe others through anything but softer filter.”

“Sherlock, I’ve seen the absolute worst in people,” John corrected. “But to do the absolute worst, to bet that way, you have to have passion. Conviction. How could a person have those if their heart is locked away?”

“That, John, is a question I will leave up to the philosophers.”

 


End file.
